Thais don’t clutter their speech with prepositions, conjunctions and adverbs, they get right to the point, and there are few variations for common sentences. In English, we say, “I am going to go home.” Thais simply state, “Glap baan.” (Return home.) Yen means cold. Instead of saying it is very cold, they just say the word twice: “Yen yen.”
People are described according to their Jai (spirit or heart). Jai ron means hot-tempered spirit, Jai yen, cool spirit. Jai dum is black-hearted or dark spirit, and Jai dee is good spirit. Often, rude foreigners who disregard Thai customs in tourist areas are branded Jai dum. You know you’ve made points with the locals if you hear them remark, Farang jai dee. (The foreigner is good-hearted.)
To express emotion in public is to lose face but whatever the severity of the transgression, from the sure sign of bad manners represented by inadvertently patting someone on the head to backing a motorcycle tire over someone’s foot, all is forgiven with a simple plea “Kaw toht.” (Excuse me.) Apologies are readily accepted with smiles and a passive “Mai pen rai” (never mind), and then the foreigner is commended for having “Jai dee.”
There is no such word as he or she — Kow denotes either. But since Thai is polite to the extreme, when addressing a superior or someone unfamiliar, a man shows respect by ending his sentences in Khap and a woman with Kha. To skip a formal ending of a sentence would be a deliberate act of rudeness — a faux pas similar to a military private addressing an officer without the accompanying “Sir.”
In Pattaya Beach, Thais tolerate drunken foreigners, but they don’t respect them and show it by omitting formalities. Since few foreigners speak Thai, they don’t know when they are being insulted, and as long as everyone keeps smiling, they don’t seem to mind. But for a traveler, to be seen as a tourist is annoying, and it requires a substantial effort — like learning the language to show the distinction.
Thirty bucks a day has bought a shiny new hotel room with satellite TV, five delightful meals, two hours of high-speed Internet and workouts at the gym. While traveling the world, three weeks in one city is long enough — but also too short when it comes time to saying goodbye to people who’ve been cooking your food, guarding your motorcycle and otherwise interacting to make your stay interesting.
But to reach Borneo by mid-July, I must roll for Malaysia in the morning. When recognizing the consequences of my decision, I instantly developed jep jai — a pained spirit. So with sia jai, broken heart, my baffling journey continues deeper into Asia, where, just when things seem to become clear, I discover that one and one is three, yes means no and, despite all my efforts, I’ll always be a stranger in a strange land.
Loong
July 6, 2005
Sadao, Thailand
From the red clay tracks of Laos and Cambodia to a four-lane highway spanning the length of Malaysia, it’s been a fascinating road to travel. Originally allotting three months for the region, time has passed too quickly for a comfortable farewell. As the predominately Muslim southern provinces of Thailand plunge deeper into turmoil, the government travel warnings increase. After the brutal suppression of a peaceful uprising, the call for bloody revenge intensifies with daily assaults and, finally, beheadings.
It’s been a hundred years since Britain and Thailand divvied up the south, but the inhabitants have not forgotten their identity. What was once northern Muslim Malaysia has become a troubled land of sectarian violence. Gentle Buddhist and peaceful Muslims exist in the cross fire of extremists as a struggle for independence continues.
Nearing the border, personalities shift as eager smiles and overt friendliness evolve into awkward suspicion. Half the locals don’t speak Thai, and those who do use a jagged dialect that even people from Bangkok don’t understand. My roadside-restaurant attempts at making contact are met with wary nods and silent stares. A wanderer’s policy of not leaving until we shake hands stretches the day, but after a lengthy period of broken dialogue, my persistence pays off. Eventually, chunky-cheeked southerners crowd around for photos and insist on buying my meals — a gesture unheard of further north but typical of Islamic hospitality. Values and sincerity are more important than who owns what.
My last four days on an expired one-month visa evaporate on the travel-poster-paradise island of Phuket, complete with a moonlight romance that has boiled into breathless tropical lust. Bumming around in the city bars, I’ve met Loong, the girl of my most recent dreams. Motorcycle rides along clear blue waters lined with sugary sands have stirred up an intoxicating brew of instant attraction and mutual affection. Women of 30 without children are rare in Thailand, yet to ask questions would only encourage lies. Sticking to small talk, the bumbling humor of a stuttering foreigner cuts directly to the chase, and, before long, Loong’s naked body is next to mine. Sexual adventures for travelers often start with an unrealistic idea that somehow fate will intervene and inevitable goodbyes can be postponed. Yet wishing and hoping is a mirage for a pragmatic wanderer, no matter how lonely. And as the softness of her smile belies the hardship of Loong’s life, I never want to let her go.
Tall and thin with long black hair dangling to the top of her well-fit jeans, Loong’s looks caught my eye, but not as much as seeing her give coins to street beggars. An Asian ranch girl in a cultural menagerie of desires and taboos capture a Viking heart. Cautiously aware of how foreigners can be taken in by the childlike playfulness of Thai women, for the last three months I’ve avoided what could take me down. Yet such cautions are hard to remember lost in a woman’s innocent laughter. In a soft, lingering embrace for what seems like forever, her long silky legs hold me inside as she coos for me stay. When pearly toothed natives flick on the charm, we’re as defenseless as they are the moment we saddle up and leave. The economic might of a single Western workingman could easily sweep aside the tragedies of an entire Thai village — and realizing this makes riding off into the sunset that much harder.
But destiny rules in Asia. Whether human or natural disasters, the fate of those we learn to care about is always beyond their control. The commercial impact of the recent tsunami is mending far faster than the spirits of its human survivors, while faith and hope wobble as reliably as the region’s tectonic plates next shift. Thais celebrate water, but their lifelong friend, the sea, has betrayed them, and now worship has turned to terror. Will giant waves of death come for them again?
A moonlit stroll on an empty paradisiacal beach turns to shivering paranoia as Loong trembles at the waters edge. Her warm melodic laughter silenced, her body freezes with blank-stare chants to Buddha. Clumsy attempts to console her about what I don’t understand only add to the frustration of ineptitude. I might as well be watching this on TV. Whispering waves to Loong have become the low hisses of lurking spirits sucked out to sea. “Grua bpee Gaan.” (I fear the ghosts Glen.)
Later, while I pack my gear, she watches me count the last of my Thai currency while calculating my hotel bill and immigration fines for an expired visa. Not realizing it’s only an attempt to avoid another ATM withdrawal, she worries I don’t have enough money and holds out a handful of wrinkled bills. After cooking my meals and washing my clothes, she’s fired both barrels at once. But another night in the seductive embrace of Loong would surely turn into another year, and once again, I’m facing a now or never moment.
Life is especially unfair for women in developing nations, and it’s likely been a while since Loong was treated like a lady — but an armful of purple orchids from the traveling foreigner gave her “big face” in the minds of a watching village. And as I stood there grappling with my emotions, her almond eyes shimmering like coffee beans clouded my reasons to move on. Struggling for composure, she reads from a scribbled note the only English she’s yet spoken, “Plees no foget me Gaan.” And this time, no matter how hard I twist the throttle, it will be a while before I can leave the past behind.
BORNEO
Borneo
July 7, 2005
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br /> Serawak, East Malaysia
Slicing through Malaysian jungle terrain, a seamless asphalt corridor connecting the Thai border with Kuala Lumpur unravels for a straight 300 miles south. With First World infrastructure, toll stations and chain restaurants replace noodle stands and traffic-clogged small towns. Car drivers pay fees, but motorcyclists ride free in special lanes to the sides of toll booths. At my first gas stop, passive Malays welcome me with thumbs-up gestures and the usual question, “Where are you coming from?” Docile women in long dresses and pastel-shaded headscarves are reminders of a return to Islam.
A suggestion from Robert Heikel has caused a spur-of-the-moment decision to deviate from my route toward Indonesia for a detour to Borneo. Rumors of an upcoming exotic Rainforest World Music Festival and an unusual bargain became reality. Faster than sea-freighting and half the price, Malaysian Airlines offered a deal at 500 bucks round-trip for man and machine. International transport is normally at least five times that, but a federally subsidized program to boost internal trade serves travelers as well.
Still, this week, the U.S. government has echoed Australia’s warning of a verified, significant risk of terrorist attack along the eastern Borneo coast by Islamic militants from the Philippines. My choice was returning to the civil unrest in Southern Thailand or heading for the separatist insurrection in Aceh province, Sumatra. Since I had already bought a nonrefundable ticket online, fate demanded that I continue on to Kuching, capital of Serawak, in the mythical land of Borneo.
This oil-rich island shared by Indonesia, Brunei and two semi-autonomous states of Malaysia, Borneo is also home to 200 tribes of protected indigenous people. It’s an interesting establishment of turf — anywhere in Malaysia, Chinese merchants control commerce, while Muslim Malays run the government. Indians handle textiles and electronics as local natives entertain the tourists. After two hours of importation and customs declarations, the Blue Beast is loaded onto an aluminum pallet and shoved into the gaping hold of an idling MAS cargo plane. There is always a risk of damage from clumsy handlers while freighting a bike, but the promise of adventure outweighed the risk of broken turn signals or bent handlebars.
With its distinctive blend of clashing cultures, Malaysia is as diverse as India, only far better organized. Well-pronounced English is spoken even in the smallest towns, but on Borneo, each tribe has its own tongue differing completely from what is spoken a few villages away. One of only a few Westerners at the Rainforest World Music Festival, I shared three starry nights with throngs of passionate locals eager to hear traditional folk songs from around the world. Algerians, Africans, Iranians, Mongolians, Poles, Australians, Thais, Colombians, Italians, Pakistanis and even a bluegrass band from the U.S. kept fans energetically swaying and clapping past midnight.
After a red-headed Mongolian girl belted out hair-raising ballads of Genghis Khan, a bagpipe band from Poland moved a captivated crowd with their versions of Celtic melodies. The pulse-grabbing beat of the West African drum ensemble dominated with throbbing harmonies and somersaulting dancers. But when a singer from the Foghorn String Band of Portland, Oregon, stepped on stage bellowing, “Greetings from the USA,” the audience went wild with cheers and roared with applause. While the band plucked at twanging banjos and whining fiddles, 10,000 Malaysians jumped to their feet and into dance moves straight out of Texas. Watching a hillside covered with profusely perspiring people party with music from the heartland infected me with an overdue case of homesickness. As normally subdued Chinese girls leaped into country-and-western square dancing, it was with a mixture of relief and pride that I realized that although the world may be furious with my government, they still loved what’s truly American.
In the Hands of the Chinese
July 13, 2005
East Malaysia
Although life is richer in Asia, it’s also far more of a struggle. From its early dynasties to a modern republic, China has often been the birthplace of people who eventually migrate elsewhere. From fleeing homeland hardships to providing the slave labor that built America’s railroads to escaping famine by drifting into Southeast Asia, the Chinese have always been on the move. Humming with energy, they never stand idle. The wisest of immigrants, they perpetuate ancient superstitions as well as a basic creed: perseverance creates prosperity.
Accustomed to toil, the Chinese are natural born businesspeople who understand human necessities and satisfy them wherever they ultimately settle. Throughout Southeast Asia, they comprise 15 percent of populations yet control most of the commerce. Travelers in the region soon learn it’s the Chinese who offer the best values in hotels, restaurants and money-changing. In Bangkok, Thai-Chinese government officials own chains of multistory brothels.
First welcomed as cheap labor then resented for their success, the Chinese are the first to be blamed when economies stumble. The Malaysian riots of 1969 led to the open slaughter of 2,000 Chinese in the streets of Kuala Lumpur. Indonesia demanded that the Chinese abandon their cultural identity by taking Muslim names and stripping their businesses of anything written in Chinese. Even Chinese medicine was forbidden by law. When hard times hit Jakarta, it’s still Chinese shops and restaurants that go up in flames. But the determined rise again.
Westerners measure success in quarterly reports and stock market updates. Chinese measure their progress over centuries. Communist control in mainland China represents only a passing moment in the longest lasting civilization on earth. After civil war, feeding, housing and restoring peace for a billion peasants required brutal control at enormous human cost. Yet now, the world can only marvel at the Chinese and wonder how their growing prosperity will affect the future.
Far more pragmatic than the West understands, we now stand gaping while a giant awakens — flexing its muscles. Immigrants ridiculed for their ways and made wary of those who’ve turned on them, the Chinese have learned to keep to themselves. But revisiting the same restaurants and businesses ultimately yields peeks into their lives they are normally unwilling to share with strangers. It takes a week of fried-duck lunches with a reluctant Mr. Woo to convince him of my sincerity. “For what you want to know about Chinese?”
“I have ridden that motorcycle around the world to hear your stories.”
Shaking a wrinkled index finger, he explains: “The natives here, they come from Indonesia 500 years ago — the Chinese only 200. My father born in China, I born here. My family work many shops.”
The Chinese never flaunt their wealth. This scrawny old man with four long hairs sprouting from a chin mole is as likely to own this part of town as he is to be a pensioner. Every day when greeting me, this frail, stooping merchant with a three-day stubble squeezes my hand with an iron claw. Aware this hurts, he still comments, “Ah you wery strong man.” But the barriers come down with an invitation to his “Special place for Chinese man only.” Next to his faded checkered shirt with buttoned-up collar, I don’t feel out of place in my worn riding clothes, wherever we’re headed.
From a darkened back-alley doorway, we follow plumes of incense up a grimy old staircase to a flimsy wooden door. Two rings on the bell make a smudgy window slide open and after a muttered exchange we’re hustled inside. Mamasan is hesitant, but Mr. Woo insists, “Ying Ying for my fren.”
For an hour and a half, a solid nine in any culture kneads and pummels back muscles knotted from the last thousand miles. But she doesn’t stop there. Oriental massage is synonymous with sexual relief. What the sleek vanilla-skinned beauty does next with her oiled hands exceeds what other women have attempted by conventional means. Dazed and amazed, it takes a few minutes to stand on wobbly legs while Ying Ying waves off my stammered marriage proposals. Slipping back into a high-necked golden gown, she kisses my cheek and glides down the hall to send the next customer to his dream of a heaven. Before disappearing behind a red velvet curtain, the sensuous porcelain doll with soft black eyelashes turns to bow, “You like Ying Ying, you come again.�
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Borneo Iban tribesman in the upriver town of Sibu, Sarawak, East Malaysia
Upriver into Borneo
July 15, 2005
Kapit, Serawak
Rain or shine, I’ve never been any place where I didn’t wish I was on a motorcycle. Today, this includes the wilds of Borneo. Although a tamer version of the indigenous people can be found just outside any city perimeter, to experience them on their home turf, travelers must venture into the island’s interior. But the only routes to the remote tribal villages are via a vast series of rivers and tributaries. Local maps show only the main east-to-west road, along with an intricate network of transport waterways. The biggest of six major rivers, the Rejang is Borneo’s equivalent to the Amazon and the gateway to the island’s unpredictable rain forest. Where the asphalt continues past the river sits the quiet frontier town of Sibu and primary transportation hub of the region.
Although this is Muslim Malaysia, on Borneo, Christians arrived first, and even the Chinese were ultimately converted. One at a time, they introduce themselves in roadside restaurants, “Hello my name is George Wilson.” The sixth biggest island on earth, Borneo’s cultures are as diverse as its animal life. What travelers can see from a two-lane roadway skirting the edges of a jungle too dense to see into is enough to satisfy most. But for more curious travelers, with threats of anything from witch doctors to headhunters, depending on your imagination, there is much beyond here to feed the soul or chill the spine. Unfortunately, the only way further inland is by boat or small airplane. Yet since this is a motorcycle journey, the Blue Beast will travel on water.
One More Day Everywhere Page 26